


Warp and Weft

by die_traumerei



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Eventual Happy Ending, Identity Issues, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, that ending is gonna be earned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-13 09:02:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 11,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3375671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_traumerei/pseuds/die_traumerei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not a love story, but a story with love in it. Not a story about Bucky finding himself, but he does, eventually, in his own way. And so does Steve.</p><p>Bucky and Steve figure out their places in the world (for some definition of 'figure out'), both together and apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bucky

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a departure from what I usually write. Much less fluff (although there's affection and love a-plenty) and more playing with language and writing style, and with Bucky's identity and the journey around that in particular. 
> 
> I don't have an update schedule set, but I'll try for once a week -- more if I can.

Bucky Barnes had never had much of a liking for museums. He wasn't against them or anything, just wasn't ever too interested in them. He and Steve had gone running through the Louvre in 1943 in a Howlies-wide game of hide-and-seek, and that had marked the best time he'd ever had in a museum. They were more fun now, he supposed – lots of interactive stuff, and significantly fewer tiny, hand-typed labels identifying the provenance of approximately four hundred identical arrowheads – but still. Not really his thing.

But the Smithsonian had given him back the first (well, second if you counted Steve on the bridge) pieces of his identity, so he felt a little beholden. And Steve had really wanted to see these tapestries, so to this exhibition he went.

They were pretty cool, Bucky had to admit. Modern art, made on modern looms with brilliant pops of color and giant cartoony representations. A story he could follow. Not beautiful, but fascinating.

Steve had already gone around the room once and was starting over again at the first great hanging, zeroing in on some detail or other, and Bucky knew it was time for him to go get a coffee.

On the way out, though, he stopped in another room that had a different tapestry, this one hundreds of years old. It had recently been restored to it's current glory, and half the room was taken up with an explanation of how conservators had worked to painstakingly replace threads, re-weaving the intricate pattern and stabilizing what had survived. Bucky studied the panels, the before images showing a moth-eaten piece of fabric, the threads collapsed into a heap, the details lost.

Wasn't that another piece of himself, then? A mess of yarn, only part of the overall design surviving, the rest...not.

Time for coffee.

Steve found him later. He was all but glowing, having drunk his fill of design and details. Bucky had been pleased to find he could get a cup of coffee almost the size of his head and a small table to himself, tucked away in a corner of the soulless, overpriced cafe. All that, plus his Kindle, made for a pleasant hour.

“I am never gonna get used to the hair,” Steve said, sitting down across from him. “Took me three scans of the room to find you.”

“Steve, if you can't tell me from the set of my shoulders, there's no hope in hell for you,” Bucky informed him, running his hand through aforesaid hair. Long enough that he didn't look like the sweet-faced boy in the history books, but cropped a little shorter than the Soldier. Dying it brilliant blue hadn't hurt either – no one expected some old fogey from the forties to know his way around a Manic Panic bottle. (No one expected him to be about twenty-eight either, for some reason.) Hide in plain sight.

Steve scowled at him. “You're deliberately sitting differently too, aren't you?”

“One of us has to not suck at being able to blend in, ball cap boy.”

“I'll have you know Janet specifically approved this outfit.”

“Mmmhmm.” Bucky winked. “Remind me to send her flowers.”

“Bucky.”

“What?” he asked innocently. “Am I not into dudes in this incarnation of someone who is definitely not wanted criminal Bucky Barnes?”

Steve looked hurt. “Fuck, you know it's not like that.”

Bucky gave him a withering look.

“You make it sound like...like you get a new personality. Like you're still being wiped,” Steve said quietly.

“Maybe that's what it feels like some days, okay?” Bucky rubbed his face. Fighting took energy he didn't have. “Hey. Did you like it?”

“Yes. Bucky, they were so cool! And there's a documentary to go along with them, we gotta watch it. It sounds awesome.”

Bucky smiled for Steve, because that's what the handsome guy with the blue hair would do. And, to be fair, that's what Bucky would do, for Steve.

***

They took their time going home, enjoying the small miracle that was a pleasant summer day in New York City. Dinner at once place; ice cream at another. A drink at the bar around the corner from the apartment they'd bought when Bucky had come back to himself and Steve, and they finally admitted to each other that they violently hated living in Avengers Tower. Catching ten minutes of CNN, agreeing to never watch CNN ever again. Bed.

Bucky stretched out on top of the sheets and closed his eyes. Here he could breathe, here he felt light. Here he wasn't anyone nor was he for anyone. Here he was threads, still weaving together. He loved being Bucky – Bucky was funny and charming and handsome, not a bad guy at all to be. He liked being that guy with the blue hair, quiet and a little awkward, who sat folded in his seat where Bucky naturally sprawled with rounded shoulders.

Whoever he was now, when left to himself, he sat straight, perfect posture. 

He put Bucky to sleep for the night, bidding him sweet dreams, as befit the loving boy. He put the Soldier to sleep, unneeded in this time of peace. He put the blue-haired guy to sleep; he wasn't a person, really, just a distraction for people who might be looking for James Buchanan Barnes.

All these faces, these ways of moving, all these threads – he was all and none, and it was too much to weave back together. It had taken five experts to fix a piece of cloth, he had learned that day. Too much to ask, to fix the man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tapestries they visit are quite real -- if you ever get a chance to see Grayson Perry's The Vanity of Small Differences, it's an amazing experience. (And I believe the series where he explores class in Britain/creates the tapestries can still be streamed from the Channel Four site.)


	2. Steve

Steve had a new game to play. (He had gotten good at quiet, solitary games as a child. Well, no; he had gotten impatient and angry. But he'd gotten good, too.) He tried to see how many times a day Bucky lied to him.

It wasn't lying out of meanness, and half the time he was pretty sure it wasn't entirely conscious. But it was lying nonetheless – a look from under his eyelashes, an assurance that he remembered a joke, even _finishing_ the joke sometimes. He didn't have a tell, exactly, other than the fact that Steve had known him for most of both their lifetimes. Steve just _knew_.

And it fucking hurt. His best friend was back, his Bucky his – well, they weren't lovers, exactly, not at the moment. They cuddled  sometimes , and kissed  on rare days , but mostly slept apart. They didn't discuss this either; it was just what happened. Lovers, friends, whatever – Steve was grateful every day. 

He had gone to St. Margaret's and lit a candle the day they found Bucky half-dead in the ruins of a Hydra lab he'd imploded.  Steve had lit another candle every day that Bucky lay unconscious, fighting for life, and had prayed with the priest for the first time in, oh, eighty years at least. All those little points of light, all those cheap, tiny candles. Lights in the darkness, and Bucky had  woken and knew him. 

He'd sat beside his friend and held his hand, and they joked a little. Bucky's grin had been perfect. The way he canted his head to listen to Steve, even the way he'd bitched about the itch and ache of healing bones. It was all perfect, just like before he'd fallen, and it was all totally wrong.

Bucky hadn't changed one bit. Except he  _had_ , he  _must_ have. In tiny, tiny ways, he showed he had. But he was still Bucky, as though he were playing a part, and it killed Steve to watch his friend pretend. Like Steve wouldn't love him just as much? Never. There was no such thing as not loving Bucky, no such thing as not wanting to be his friend.

But he didn't speak up. Not for some time. Not until after Bucky had healed in body and come home with him. Not until after they'd bought an apartment together and spent a week painting walls and buying furniture; and not until after they had moved in and shared a kiss to mark that first sunset, and made breakfast together most days. He kept quiet, because Steve was, at heart, a coward. 

There had to be a reason Bucky was lying, whether he was conscious of it or not. And Steve was fairly sure he wouldn't like the reason, but that hardly stopped him, did it?

He was a giant fucking coward, and he loved his friend, and knew he had to bite the bullet sometime. It would have been easier if Bucky had been less perfectly himself. The man was charming, and Steve bet anything he relied on it to get away with this thing where he could turn into whoever he wanted to.

He was especially charming on a rainy Sunday afternoon. They played cards while wind and rain beat against the windows, spring roaring in with a vengeance. Bucky was teasing, just on the edge of flirtatious, and he had that damned smile out in full force. 

“C'mon, that's all you got? One more round, to give you a chance to win something back. I feel that sorry for ya, Steve.”

“Why do you pretend with me?” Steve blurted out, because good timing was apparently for losers.

“What?”

“Why do you...you're not _you_ with me,” Steve tried to explain. “Why? You know  that whoever you are now, that doesn't change anything.”

“Steve, what in the hell are you talking about?” Bucky asked, eyes narrowing. “I'm me. Seriously. There's about forty psychiatrists who'll vouch for that.”

“I know! That's what's wrong. You're you. Perfectly. Like you went to sleep in 1944 and then woke up a few months ago.” Steve looked down at his hand, cards without meaning. “It's not right. I changed. You must have changed, you _did_. I can tell, sometimes. But it's like you have to perform Bucky Barnes for me, and I wish...I just want you to be true. To yourself.”

Bucky bit his lip. “I am. Don't you get it? Bucky's in here with me, and he's the best. He's the best parts of me.”

“But he's not all that's in there,” Steve said.

“No.” Bucky sighed, and put his cards down. “There's also the weapon that killed children. Can you get why I wouldn't want that part of me to come up for air?”

“Fuck off, it's not like that.” Steve glared at him. “Look at how you're talking, even. Like there's all these people inside of you, like you can put them into little boxes. Like Bucky Barnes isn't the boy who was made into a weapon, isn't the guy who flattened Hydra, isn't the dude with colorful hair and a passionate love for Taylor Swift and Seven Year Bitch.”

“Because that's how it _feels_ , Steve,” Bucky snapped. “Yeah, all that's in there. Yeah, I know the Winter Soldier wasn't my fault, but I still see everything he did, I still remember what they made me do, and so _what_ if I like choosing which part of me I want to be?”

“It doesn't work like that, though,” Steve said, his voice rising. “You can't just...pick out parts of yourself. People don't work like that. You think I like all of myself?” Or, some days, any of himself. “But it's _there_. I can't just decide to be Steve-the-Artist, or Steve-who-fights. I'd go insane. _You'll_ go insane.”

“I'm doing okay so far,” Bucky said, voice wavering a little. “I _am_. Everyone says so.”

“You're doing great,” Steve said, and sighed, and put his cards down. “Better'n I ever did. You're great. But you scare me, Bucky.”

“I scare everyone.”

“Hey.” Steve looked up at him, glaring across the table. “Don't talk like that. You don't. And I'm not afraid of you because you could kick my ass. I'm not afraid of the things you did. Fuck, I _ordered_ you to do some pretty awful stuff, and just 'cause we were on the side of the angels doesn't excuse that. I'm not afraid of the Winter Soldier, and I'm not afraid of Bucky Barnes. I'm afraid of what will happen if you keep...splintering yourself.”

“And what the fuck am I supposed to do, then?” Bucky asked, fingers twitching. “Just put myself back together again?”

“According to every VA meeting I've ever been do, yeah. Basically.” Steve rubbed his forehead. “Still working on that myself. But Bucky...I want you in my life, _all_ of you. You're still gonna be my best friend.”

“Believe me, I know,” Bucky said, and rolled his eyes. “Look. I don't know what to tell you.”

“Stop playacting with me. Even if it's just here, at home. You don't have to be anyone, for me.” Steve smiled a little shyly. “Please. You're getting to know me, after a couple years apart. Do me the same favor? Let me get to know you again.”

Bucky just stared at him. “When I figure out how, I'll let you know,” he said, and got up. Steve heard him walk down the hall to his bedroom and close the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am on Tumblr at [Die Traumerei](dietraumerei.tumblr.com)


	3. The Winter Soldier

I survived.

Do you know how rare and how lovely a thing that is? I survived. I survived the arm,  _my_ arm. The programming, the freezing, the cold. I survived the Germans, then the Soviets, then the Americans. How many can say as much?

That is what I do, you see. I keep alive. I keep going.

There is no softness in me, no tenderness, and that is why I stayed alive. All that was flayed away. It comes back now, because there is a place in my world for kindness again. And I am unneeded.

But still I survive, because that is what I do. I endure, here and there.

I am necessary for fighting. I am necessary for Bucky Barnes to be useful, which is a thing that is important to me. I can fight the best of anyone, and I do. I fought those who made me, and won.

Three great nations, and I outlived them all – enough to make you laugh, eh? I do laugh, you know. Not often, but sometimes you have to drink and laugh and dance under the moonlight – that is what I learned from the Germans, then from the Soviets, then from the Americans. Everyone thought they were so good, to give me beer and slivovitz and wine. And they died, their empires crumbled, and I endured.

That is what I would be proudest of, if I could be truly proud. Weapons lack emotion. But the man that I am becoming – he is a little proud, to have survived so well.

I have no agency, and no real desires. I exist in the moment, the part of James Buchanan Barnes that is farthest from the church pew of youth. I do not question whether killing is right, nor do I question who I kill for, only that it is done correctly and cleanly. I was there before the ragged Brooklyn streets, I was there before the war in Europe, and I am still here.

Such a patchwork of a life; I will never go away. But I rest, I keep this body alive, and then I rest again. Of such strands is a man made. There is love and kindness and boredom and anger now too, all things I never felt, but they draw me in. Bits of me, interleaving, interweaving again. A whole man, in theory, but not yet in practice.

 

***

 

Bucky wakes up, and is sorry that he fought with Steve. The man had some good points, even though he doesn't, thank God, understand. Bucky's pretty sure he  _can't_ . Oh, he gets it a little – understands the difference between being Steve Rogers and Captain America, and knows when to be whom. But Captain America is, and always has been, just a part to be played. All the people Bucky's been – they're in him and they are him and he can't lock them away forever.

He rubs his face, and winces at the soreness that somehow crept into his bones. He wasn't out for long. He's not sure if he sleeps or passes out or passes into a fugue state in these times, but he doesn't really wake rested.

Bucky stretches, and puts on a fresh shirt, and heads for the kitchen. It's his night to make dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr as [die traumerei](dietraumerei.tumblr.com)


	4. Steve

“Bucky? You around?” Steve called, letting himself into their apartment. He was later than usual coming back from his run – still healing from a fight meant waking up before dawn hadn't been an easy task – but the guest room still needed painting. And they had two days guaranteed R&R.

_went out for a ride, promise be back before lunch don't paint the whole room yourself! - B_

Steve smiled at the post-it note stuck to the mirror by the door (a mirror the place had come with, Bucky pointed out to everyone, even as he carefully checked himself over every time before he left for anything), and went to get a shower. He'd get started at least, taping up the windows and all the fiddly little things.

A shower and some food later, he lost himself in the easy rhythm of work, of prepping for paint and then doing the edges first himself, going around the room with a paintbrush and a little can. Bucky had been easily bored by details like this; the Winter Soldier was an expert at them. Steve's shoulders relaxed; he was fine with fiddly stuff like this, and he worked steadily until his stomach rumbled.

He looked up, blinking a little, and saw that it was nearly one. Well past time for lunch, but also well past time for Bucky to be home.

He checked his phone – nothing –  but wasn't too terribly surprised. Bucky didn't lose time, exactly, but he spaced out sometimes, especially out riding. Steve had gone with him a few times, and had been the one to notice when they had to stop for gas, lest they be stranded by the side of the road.

“Everything okay?” Bucky said, answering Steve's call on the fourth ring. 

Steve rummaged around their fridge, pouting a bit when he realized Bucky had eaten the last of the ham  they'd cooked yesterday. “ Bucky , I was saving that ham for lunch!”

“You called me to bitch at me for making sandwiches?” Bucky said, voice warm and bemused.

“Well, I am now.” Eugh, _turkey_. Fine.

“So I take it everything's okay,” Bucky said dryly and then, quickly, “Oh, shit! Steve, I'm so sorry, I didn't realize the time, fuck...”

“Don't worry about it.”

“Shit. I'm still two hours away. Steve, I'm _really_ sorry, I didn't mean to ditch you, I know that room needs painting --”

“Bucky, seriously. Don't worry about it, I've got it.” Steve switched to speaker so he could make lunch. “Where are you, anyway?”

“Uh. Somewhere upstate? It's pretty here.”

“Stay there as long as you want. Honest, it's kind of a one-man job anyway.”

“Just...fuck, I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you.”

“Bucky, it's just some painting, it's _okay_ ,” Steve said, and was a little surprised to find exactly how okay it was. Solitude...hadn't been this comfortable in a long time. 

God, he was a dick. Spend months chasing his best friend down, spend over a year helping him come back into himself and now, be desperately grateful that he could take care of a few chores alone. 

“If you're sure,” Bucky said, sounding mollified. “I'm not sorry at all about the ham, by the way. Lunch was delicious.”

“Oh, go to hell,” Steve said cheerfully. “Hey. Have fun this afternoon.”

“You too. Don't work too hard, okay? And go lie down if your ribs hurt.”

“ _Yes_ Ma,” Steve said, and hung up.

The afternoon flew by, perfect hours full of listening to Nina Simone and painting and just...resting. Breathing. Feeling his body heal, feeling – calm. For the first time in a long time.  By the time the sun was nearing the horizon, t he room was painted a lovely pale yellow, and dinner needed making.

He was halfway through  seasoning the salmon when he heard Bucky come in. “Perfect timing as always!” he called from the kitchen, and very pointedly did  _not_ turn around when Bucky came in, still in his leathers.  He didn't need the encouragement.

“That's what all the girls say,” Bucky replied, and came over to kiss Steve lightly. “Can I help with anything?”

“Yes, go shower the road off of you,” Steve said, wrinkling his nose. “Supper'll be ready soon.”

“Thanks.” Bucky ducked his head, looking only slightly guilty. “I'll do dishes.”

“Damn right you will.” The banter was almost automatic between them, done without thinking, players reciting their parts.

Steve turned back to the rice, and ignored the way he felt like the taste of metal in the air. Nothing was wrong.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos, bookmarks and comments: the things that send me over the moon!
> 
> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	5. Bucky

“Blond hair? Really?”

“Shut up, I gotta go undercover,” Bucky said, grinning. “I think I look awesome.”

“Are you _supposed_ to look like a walking VD?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Bucky said, and moved to straddle Steve's hips where he sat on the sofa, making sure to plunk his ass down hard on Steve's knees. “I'm hot.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Who are you this time?”

“Shitty punk kid in a squat. Name's Trev, and I'm from Indiana,” Bucky said, slipping into a flat Midwestern accent. “I write poetry I don't show anyone and I secretly think Sid Vicious was a dickhead even though I look exactly like him.”

Steve frowned. “How long you gonna be gone?”

“Dunno. Like, a week? Maybe two?” Bucky frowned. “Shit, it's not our anniversary or something tomorrow, is it?”

“No!” Steve paused. “I don't think. Do we have an anniversary?”

“Are we technically even dating?” Bucky pointed out.

“No, shit, it's nothing like that,” Steve explained. “Just...you're cleared by psych, right?”

Bucky leveled a look at him. “Yes, like forty times over.”

Steve shrugged and looked down. “Sorry. It's just...I worry. You go undercover so well, I just...worry. That it's not good for you.”

“Nat's just as good as I am.”

“Nat didn't have her brain sliced, frozen, and diced for seventy years,” Steve pointed out, and cupped Bucky's face in his hands. “I'm sorry. I'm not gonna ground you or anything. I just...you said yourself, it feels like you're lots of different people.”

“Yeah. And that's why I'm the best,” Bucky argued, pulling back a little. “Steve, I'm fucking fine.”

“Okay! Okay.” Steve sighed and rested their foreheads together. “I'll stop bitching. Go have fun. Punch a bad guy for me.”

“I'll punch all of them for you,” Bucky promised, and kissed Steve quickly. “See you in a week or two. Don't forget to feed the strays when I'm gone.”

“Jesus, Buck!”

 

Trev let himself out, locking the door behind him and slipping the key through the mail slot. It was Bucky's key, not his. Hell, he wasn't even supposed to  _be_ in Brooklyn, DUMBO was way, way above his pay grade. He lived in a flop in Queens, where he knew the best dumpsters for diving. And aw, there was this beautiful girl there, fuck, she was  _so_ much better than what she'd wound up with. He was gonna get a job, even just part time, so he could get her outta there.

She made him write poetry, like  _good_ poetry, and he pulled a notebook out of his bag once he'd got on the subway and started scrawling. None of that slam shit for Diana – she deserved something pretty. Like Donne, but understandable. God, she was the best.

Trev had always been Trev. Simple life, not fucked up. Trev might last for only two more weeks, but he'd live those two weeks fully. Strands pulled forward, colors visible, other strands pushed to the back until they were needed, splinters of a person woven from so many choices.

Trev wasn't angry at anyone. Bucky Barnes was annoyed at Steve, but he wasn't important right now, wouldn't be for another fortnight, when his mission was over and he went home and fussed and maybe fucked, and argued again and he was  _fine_ .

 

* * *

 

Bucky woke up a fortnight later, blood on his hands, but he'd punched the bad guys and the world was safe like the movies had promised. He frowned, trying to remember, but eh – so much slipped away these days, and it wasn't important. He was Bucky now, and he headed home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the short chapters -- I'll try to update more often, to make up for it.
> 
> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	6. Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD this was the chapter that would not be written, I swear. Ugh. Here. Have it. Finally.
> 
> Also -- please note the change in rating. Also, I've updated the tags, mostly because some early plans I had are probably not gonna happen now.
> 
> (I have the next two at least sketched out, so updates shouldn't be quite so few and far between for awhile, I promise.)

Steve kissed his way down Bucky's spine, licking each hard knob of bone that stood proud, nuzzling a faded bruise.

“In your own time.”

“Brat.” Steve smacked the side of Bucky's ass, then squeezed where it had turned red, smiling at his lover's shudder. “You used to be able to wait all afternoon for this.”

“I was young and dumb,” Bucky said, tilting his hips so he could wiggle his ass at Steve. He paused and turned around, though, face serious. “Did I? Really?”

“Yeah, really. Oh, hey, _no_ ,” Steve said, leaning over to kiss Bucky, lingering over bitten-red lips. “That's all the past. Be impatient if you want.”

“Maybe I _can_ be patient, though,” Bucky said slyly, and stretched out on the bed, body undulating. “You may return to the adoration of James Buchanan Barnes.”

Steve groaned, and rested his forehead on the small of Bucky's back. “Asshole.”

“ _Speaking of_...”

“Oh my God.” 

“I changed my mind, I'm not patient anymore. And I don't remember ever being _that_ patient, so there. ”

Steve sighed deeply, and bit the curve of Bucky's ass, since it was right there, and it made him yelp so beautifully. He soothed it with his tongue, then moved to nuzzle the small of Bucky's back, tasting the skin there, too. 

Bucky was practically  _vibrating_ , but he was holding still, letting Steve take his time. Steve hadn't really wanted to  before everything – mostly he'd been angry and demanding, if he remembered correctly – but they had all afternoon, and all night too if they wanted, and he had...well, not nothing to prove. Less to prove, now. And he'd loved Bucky's body when they were younger, but he  _worshipped_ it now, the miracle that had come back to him, scarred and changed and beautiful.

He rolled Bucky over to kiss him, and it must have lasted hours. Minutes, certainly. “Love you,” Steve whispered.

“Love you too,” Bucky said back, and he cupped Steve's face in one hand. “I love you. Don't ever, ever forget that, okay?”

“Like I ever could.” Steve leaned in for another kiss, slow and easy as the summer sun. “Can I top?”

“Mmm, please,” Bucky said, already spreading his legs.

Steve laughed, and flopped over him to dig around for the lube and condoms, purposely elbowing Bucky in the stomach. “You just like not having to do anything but lie there.”

“Basically, yes.”

Mission accomplished, Steve pushed up ( making sure to lean on Bucky's chest, of course) to kneel between his legs, and grin down at him. “Jesus. You were made for this.”

“Yup. Sometime this year, honey?” Bucky wiggled his hips a little, which made his cock bob, which was...well, 'adorable' and 'hilarious' were probably not words that Bucky wanted associated with that particular part of his anatomy, which didn't stop Steve in the least from telling him so.

“The things I fuckin' put up with,” Bucky sighed, rolling his eyes – until Steve slipped two slick fingers into him, and his hips jerked, and he yelped in surprise.

“You were saying?” Steve asked sweetly, and he enjoyed the way Bucky _tried_ to give him a filthy look, but it was lost in a sloe-eyed dreamy pleasure, as Steve started working his fingers. If he was a little quick – well, okay, he wasn't the most patient of people either, and really who _could_ be patient with Bucky spread out in front of him, legs splayed, gripping the bedclothes, already making soft little moaning noises.

It didn't take long for those soft little sounds to grow rather louder, and more demanding. And considering how Steve felt seeing his lover stretched out in front of him, he was more than ready to give in, sliding on a condom and not stinting on the lube. The serum had made them both hyper-sensitive; a double-edged sword most of the time, and very much in moments like this.

Steve was careful, but not particularly slow, sliding in to Bucky's wail, but stilling, letting him adjust.

“Fuck. Fuck. You were always this big,” Bucky swore. “Christ.”

Steve laughed, and leaned over, resting on his forearms, and pulled Bucky into a kiss, rocking their bodies together.

“Yes. Fuck, yes,” Bucky mumbled into his mouth. “I remember...I remember. Summer. Hot. Smelled like...like heat and dust and city and...apples?”

“Apples,” Steve confirmed, moving to nibble under Bucky's chin, see what noises he could pull out of his lover. “Pies.”

“Right. Right. Fuck. Oh, Steve, Stevie...”

“Let go, Buck,” Steve soothed. “Don't worry about the past. Don't worry about anything but right now...”

“Don't want to exist anytime but right now,” Bucky said, and he was probably babbling but who cared when Steve reached between them and wrapped his hand around Bucky's cock, a slow, slow rhythm clashing with the fast snaps of his hips. “Don' wanna be anyone, be anywhere but – here – oh!”

Steve held his lover as he came, cock painting both their bellies, and then it only took Bucky opening his eyes, those sleepy-heavy lashes parting so slow, and Bucky reaching to kiss him hard, and Steve was muffling his own yell against Bucky's sweat-damp skin, his hips pressing, cock buried in his lover and coming, coming.

Then the two of them, rasping breath smoothing, Steve pulling out, his soft cock looking silly and a little sad in the thin condom – and Lord, wasn't _that_ an improvement on early twentieth-century prophylaxis – but these were the silly, sweet bits that came after lovemaking. Finding something to wipe them both down, kissing Bucky's thighs and smiling into the swell of muscle under his mouth. Curling close, running fingers through his lover's hair, the two of them lazy and stretching in the summer sun.

This was all time, and none, and until the world intruded, they could be perfectly happy.

 


	7. Bucky?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a trigger warning, but one that is also a pretty big spoiler. (Well, a spoiler for *this chapter*, it probably won't be a surprise whole-story-wise.) Check the end notes if you're worried.

[all italicized passages are excerpted from _The Textile Conservator's Manual_ 2 nd Edition, by Sheila Landi]

 

_Minimal repair would simply be to sew up slits in the weave, either where the original stitches have already broken or to reinforce those which have weakened nearly to breaking point._

“Steve? You came and lived with my family for a little bit, right?”

Steve looked up from his laptop. “Yeah. Right after my Mom died.”

Bucky nodded, and looked back down at the multicolored timeline he was working on. “Good, I thought so.” He switched to a different color pen, and wrote something in. “Um, Steve?”

“Yeah, honey?”

“When...when did your Mom die?”

There was quiet and Bucky cringed, because fuck, what a horrible question to ask your best friend. He'd  _been_ there at the funeral. He  just couldn't remember what year.

“May eighteenth, nineteen thirty-six,” Steve said finally, and his voice was low and calm as it always was.

“Thanks,” Bucky mumbled, and wrote that in too. “'m sorry.”

“It's not your fault.”

Bucky shrugged, and looked over at Steve, and smiled a little. “Hey. I miss having brown hair again. Wanna help me dye it back tomorrow?”

He was rewarded with Steve's face softening. “I dunno, I like the bleached look.”

“That makes one of us.”

Steve laughed at that, and Bucky's shoulders relaxed. “Yeah, of course I'll help you,” he said.

 

 

_The next stage would be to patch behind locally weak areas, usually where there is a high proportion of silk or where there has been mechanical or insect damage._

“It's getting worse.”

Sara shifted a little in her seat, and re-crossed her legs. “Are you still losing memories?”

Bucky shook his head.

His therapist nodded, her demeanor gentle as ever. A petite woman from Chennai-via-Michigan was about as far from the Hydra doctors as he had been able to find. She had a soft heart, and was made entirely out of invisible steel, as far as Bucky could tell.

She also had a lot of patience for his silence.

“Still disjointed?”

Bucky nodded.

“That's what's getting worse?”

Another nod, this one curt.

“Are these old memories, or ones from after you came home?” she asked carefully.

“Old,” Bucky murmured, and bit his lip. “Can't link 'em up. Forgot when Stevie's mom died. I _knew_ , just...couldn't know.”

“Okay,” she said. “Well, we've got data to work with now, Bucky. I know it's scary, but you're doing so much better than when you first came home. Just remember that.”

“Am I?”

“What were you worried about most when you woke up and Steve was beside you?”

“Hurting him.” Bucky frowned, remembering – these patches were always clearer. “Food – hungry for a long time. Needed medical attention.”

“But you didn't hurt him – your programming was broken,” she pointed out. “And you have enough food, and you're healthy. What are you most afraid of now?”

“Hurting people,” Bucky said quickly, then thought a little while. “Losing...everything. Never used to care. Do now.” Bucky Barnes had been easy with words, the Winter Soldier spoke only the bare minimum. The splinters and shades within him bounced between these polarities, and Bucky of the now enjoyed that he didn't have to charm, just answer.

“What makes you think you might hurt people?”

“It's what I do.”

“Do you?” she asked. “You help now.”

“Yeah. _Now_. But if I can't remember who I am...” he looked at her helplessly.

“Right. Let's talk about ways you can keep other people safe, Bucky.

 

 

_Finally there will be the condition of general weakness which demands a complete support._

 

There's –

\--voices.

Not cold. Not freezing again.

He's warm, actually. Almost too warm.

Loud

      noises

           broken--

No, he didn't break anything.

He can't. Still. He's lying still. Eyes open, unseeing.

He should get up.

He'll scare –

\--someone.

 

Blond. Tall.

Not Pierce

      the other one.

But his brain isn't –

 

He's having trouble moving. Eyes open, sees beauty before him, beauty all around him arms under him holding him holding him like a baby.

      (his mother held him like this he can remember in that way his mind is broken he can remember her hands but no

           thing.)

(not after

      it's all tattered.)

 

He is

      James

Bucky

     the Asset

?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am on Tumblr at dietraumerei.tumblr.com if you wish to yell at me.
> 
> Trigger warning: Bucky experiences a breakdown, and it's told from his (depersonalized, very disjointed) POV.


	8. Steve

[all italicized passages are excerpted from _The Textile Conservator's Manual_ 2 nd Edition, by Sheila Landi]

 

_Tapestries were ruthlessly cut to make them fit a room or allow passage through a door giving rose to some loss of weave on either side of the cut. When placed together again the gap must be filled in some way._

“How's he doing, JARVIS?” Steve asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Sergeant Barnes is awake, Captain. Physically he is within all expected parameters. And he consumed his breakfast this morning entirely.”

“Good,” Steve said. “Is he up and about?”

“He is awake sir, but still in bed. Should I turn on a live feed?”

Steve shook his head. Bucky had gone far too long without any kind of privacy. “No, but thank you. Can you put in a request for me to visit him later today?”

“Done, sir. Sergeant Barnes has a number of medical appointments today, but you are welcome to visit at thirteen hundred hours. I believe his afternoon is entirely free.”

“Jarvis, can you ask him if I can visit?”

“Certainly, sir. However you should know that Sergeant Barnes continues to be mute.”

Steve shrugged. “I know. You can read his body language, right?”

“Indeed, sir,” JARVIS said, and there was a pause for several minutes. “I believe he is not un-amenable to your visiting, sir. May I suggest that you let him see you this afternoon, and then judge for yourself?”

“That sounds fair,” Steve admitted. “Please clear my schedule for the afternoon?”

“Indeed, sir.”

Steve tapped lightly on the door to Bucky's room. At least they were trying to make what was, really, a medical facility feel homely. The door didn't look any different to the door to their apartment in the Tower, although it was reinforced and locked in twenty different ways. Bucky couldn't break out even if he wanted to.

There was no reply, as Steve expected, but the door clicked and unlocked, and he pushed it open. “Buck?” he asked, craning his head around. “Do you mind if I come in?”

Bucky sat on the edge of his bed, and didn't exactly respond. His eyes flicked up, and he smiled, just a little. 

_That_ was new, and Steve couldn't do anything else but smile back. “Hey. How was your morning?”

Bucky just stayed smiling, just the slightest curve to his lips.

“I brought you something,” Steve said, coming the rest of the way into the room and settling in his usual chair. It was an armchair; big and old and fusty, and Steve loved it. If – no, _when_ – Bucky felt up to it, it was big enough to hold them both. “Here.” He held out the StarkPad. “I don't have a whole lot of my old sketches anymore, but the Smithsonian scanned them all, and they're free for anybody to look at, if they wanna waste their time that bad. Thought you might like to see 'em, though.” He hesitated, but Christ, it wasn't like Bucky wasn't aware he'd had a...breakdown, or whatever it was. “I know you need help putting all your memories back together, so maybe this'll help. Someone went through an d annotated and tagged everything, so you don't even have to ask me what's what. If you don't mind to.”

Bucky nodded, and tapped the tablet, bringing up the gallery of images. He picked one, seemingly at random, and nodded.

Steve craned his neck to look, and made a face. It was a self-portrait he'd done when he was eighteen. It was, frankly, terrible. “Yeah, that's what I used to look like. More or less.”

Bucky nodded, and flipped past the next few, just unfinished studies of hands. He paused at the next one though. Steve had drawn his bedroom window. It had looked out onto a back alley, but a tree grew there – a Tree of Heaven, like in the book. (Steve had not been able to get through  _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_ beyond the first dozen pages. But maybe it would be good for Bucky to read?) Spring was barely upon the tree, tiny buds just having burst into frilled leaves.

“Pretty familiar sight, for all the time I spent in bed,” Steve said softly.

Bucky looked over at him, face neutral. But he very nearly made eye contact, so Steve kept talking. “You probably remember me being sick a lot,” he said. “You were...really good. Help ed me  with schoolwork and everything. And you took care of me when Mama had to work,  when I was really little .”

Bucky tilted his head to one side.

“I don't think you were ever sick a day in your life,” Steve said. “But I guess you are now, kind of? I'll help you now the way you helped me then, okay?”

No response.

“I just...I don't feel like I owe you or anything. It's not like that, Bucky. It's just that you were always...there. Nothing else ever was, not food or money or fun stuff or even my mother. But you were there through it all. And I'm gonna be here for you, now. Whatever you need to help put those memories back together, I'll be here.”

Still no response, and Steve scowled at the floor. “Sorry. You probably don't care about that. Don't mind me.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, like Bucky had time for some declaration of friendship. And besides, it wasn't like he was dumb or anything – there wasn't any brain damage there, just trauma. Totally understandable trauma. And memories in pieces, all there, but out of order. And that was why his best friend had to live in this room, where he was safe and could see doctors, and he wouldn't accidentally (or purposely, in case he remember the Winter Solider a little too hard) hurt anyone. And here came Steve, prancing in, to assure Bucky that he'd be there for him. Because he could do so goddamn much.

Steve almost jumped a mile out of his chair when he felt Bucky's hand on his shoulder, thumb pressing into the collarbone. Bucky had moved to stand in front of Steve, leaning over a little like he used to have to, hand steady on Steve's shoulder.

“Bucky?” Steve asked, and Bucky smiled.


	9. Bucky

The man at the door was his best friend. A good man. His name was Pierce? Or Steve? No matter, Bucky would smile for him, as much as he could right now.

No, no, Pierce was dead but Steve  almost was too. Who was this? Pierce/Steve sat down and began talking to him gently.

Pierce had done that many times. It was safe to stay still, to be not noticed, when Pierce spoke, so that is what Bucky did.

Pierce was kind and...shy. Self-con s cious. No, no, Pierce was dead, and anyway, he had never behaved like this. Handsome and golden he had been, oh yes, but not with this awkward ness in his speech.

Oh,  _oh_ . Oh, Bucky was a moron. This was  _Steve_ . His best friend. Who the fuck forgot the face of their best friend?

He flicked through the images as Pierce talked to him, remembered that they had done this before. Yes, yes. In Hungary in '56, just in case, targets. Humanity will likely take care of its own instability but...yes. No, wait. That had been another golden-haired man. They had all had that yellow hair. The Asset responded best to handlers with light hair and light eyes. It was proof of his Nazi roots.

Bucky stopped at a picture and no, this could not be the target. This boy was long dead, this lovely boy who had been fight embodied.

Steve. Not a handler. His friend. His dumbass friend who ran towards explosions and fights and everything else. He smiled a little at Steve, big and alive somehow (no, Bucky knew how, Steve told him about the plane and Bucky called him a fuckin' moron  _because he was_ and the n he had oh did they kiss? They kissed. Sometimes. Not now.)

Steve was talking.  _Steve_ . Right, he could hold onto this, a thread to act as an anchor, warp strands gathered, now weave the picture. A picture of a window a tree in that window, a bud upon the branc h  upon the tree in the window in the book. Cascading images, fixed now. He could fix them. He  _could_ .

Steve was  _still_ talking. The picture was nice – he must have drawn it. Bucky should probably pay attention.

Steve was being  _kind_ . He  had never been so openly kind. But Bucky was ill. Not in body, not like Steve always had been, but in mind. Ill, but with people here to care for him. Steve here. Steve to be beside him.

It felt right to lean down to Steve, to press his thumb against his collarbone. It felt very right, so Bucky did it, and Bucky smiled.

Steve mostly stopped talking after that, but they looked at a few more pictures together, and Bucky worked out how the tags were arranged, so he could look things over later. Then Steve had to go, but he promised he would come back the next day, if that was okay.

Bucky nodded, and pinned another yarn in place. Today Steve had visited, and shown him photos. Tomorrow  _Steve_ would visit. Not Alexander Pierce, not Andropov, not Philby. Mark the now, tie it down.

 

After Steve left, Bucky turned the lights off. He liked it best in the dark, where it was warm and safe. The room was all right, but he could rest a little in the dark, lying in his bed. (It was a pretty nice bed. For a prison, this was all pretty nice.) Close his world in, the way you bandaged a wound or immobilized a broken bone. Darkness meant healing for Bucky Barnes. Everything with Hydra had been bright lights, flashing, screaming noises. Now things were warm and soft and he didn't speak and he didn't have to. People spoke to him in  quiet , gentle voices. He knew it was because they were afraid he was about to snap and murder them, but it was nice just the same. And Steve really did care about him. 

Lying there, he could rest and follow the threads. Like that one – oh, 

He marched with the students in Paris, his feet aching. He'd barely had time to get wiped after the previous one, where was he? Well, no matter, he could make a timeline later. Probably El Salvador, he kept wanting to speak Spanish. His French was perfect, a Parisian accent, and he took to the streets with a knife in his boot and uppers coursing through his blood. They made him talk fast, laugh loud, join in the angry chants.

He saw her, then, wild-haired. Someone's daughter, and a threat in her own right on top of that. He smiled, and she smiled back, and he pulled her into a doorway with him and slit her throat before she could do anything.

The asset returned to his handlers. Something underneath the pavement, was that imporant? He would ask someone about that tomorrow.

 

Bucky let the memory fade into place. Something he had done, but not his fault. They kept telling him that. Were they afraid he would snap and kill them? Bucky Barnes was good at killing. The Asset was better, but it's not like he was some delicate flower when he'd fallen off the train. People in this time were sort of ridiculous.

He pulled himself out of memories, but stayed lying there in the dark room. It was nice.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately Kim Philby was dark-haired, but I fell in love with the idea of him being one of Bucky's handlers, so the Asset can frankly lump it.
> 
> Also! I am FINALLY writing ahead in this story! Yay! Right now I'm planning to update once a week.
> 
> I am on tumblr as dietraumerei.tumblr.com.


	10. Steve

“Captain America, is it true that Sergeant Barnes had a breakdown and is now under round-the-clock medical supervision?”

Steve started at the question, but at least had the presence of mind to  _not_ blurt out “How did you find out?”

“What on earth are you talking about?” he managed instead, while Thor carefully stepped beside him. Together, they took up as much space as four of the reporters.

“Is he expected to recover?” she continued, bold as brass. Steve could almost admire her. 

“Sergeant Barnes is well,” Thor said, stepping in to save Steve from lying badly. “He taught me to play your game poker just yesterday. A very enjoyable time.”

Steve attempted to fade into the background, despite the ridiculous costume. And was impressed at how technically, everything Thor was saying was the truth.

“I'm having dinner with him tonight,” Wasp contributed, and smiled winningly. “I'll be wearing something from my ready-to-wear line, almost a shame that we're staying in.” This, of course drew more questions, overwhelming the reporter who had the sense to care more about a potential national security leak than a pretty frock.

Janet was a little more petite than usual, Steve noticed. Unthreatening. Adorable, actually. He could have kissed her. Thor too.

They finished up the round of questions, Steve being very careful not to smile extra-wide at the woman who had asked about Bucky, and went back into the tower, all three of them making a beeline for Tony.

“I'm already checking her e-mail and phone logs,” Tony said, clearly of the opinion that the best defense is the Hulkbuster armor. “Nothing yet.”

“Isn't that illegal?” Steve asked. “I'm pretty sure that's illegal.”

“So is breaking past the forty layers of _my_ security to get to the information she had,” Tony said, pulling up a screen of text and flicking down through it. “She started it.”

“Stark is not wrong,” Thor said. “She, or those above her, have clearly done something underhanded.”

Wasp shrank down and hovered over Tony's shoulder, scanning the logs of phone calls. “So far no Deep Throat.”

Steve rolled his eyes when Tony and Janet looked over at him, clearly expecting a reaction. “I saw the movie, guys. Although – she may have done this all offline. If she was smart, she did.”

“Wannabe Laura Poitras out there isn't smarter than me,” Tony said, pulling up another screen. “Boom. Got her.”

“What kind of breach are we looking at?” Thor asked, shifting uneasily. 

“A stupid one. Stupid for us, stupid for her. Lenfast, that doctor that checked Bucky out physically? Got a daughter serving on the Syrian border with Turkey. Looks like he was told he wouldn't have a daughter at all if he didn't talk.”

Steve sucked in a breath. “Get her safe.”

Tony looked up in surprise. “ _That's_ what you're worried about?”

“No,” Steve said, and didn't care how angry he sounded. “I am very worried that your shitty background check is putting us all in danger. But it's not her fault. Call Rhodey and get her safe. Now. We'll deal with everything else next.”

Tony nodded, and Jarvis started the call immediately.

Janet flew over to settle on Steve's shoulder, reaching up to  touch his jaw. “It's okay. He's safe.”

“I know.” Bucky was forty floors above Manhattan, all forty floors controlled and monitored by Jarvis. No one was quite willing to call his quarters Hulk-proof, but they were more-or-less everything-else proof. Bucky was safe. 

Which in no way stopped Steve from walking past the closed door on the way to his quarters. Just to be sure.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Janet Van Dyne is an Avenger and always will be an Avenger so there.
> 
> I feel like I should apologize for the very short chapters, but this seems to be how the story is shaking out -- I should start updating very regularly, so I hope that makes up for the lack of length!
> 
> Thank you everybody for the kudos and comments -- this odd little story seems to be very popular, and it's hugely encouraging to see how much people like it.
> 
> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	11. Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! I have most of the next chapter written and a good bit thought out after that. I can't promise any real schedule, but I haven't forgotten this story either :)

 

Bucky is learning to treasure his victories.

Talking isn't safe, but he's okay signing. Likes it, even, likes the way it makes his metal hand work, and likes putting the symbols together. ASL is its own language, its own syntax. Clint had even walked him through a pun the other day. And now he can communicate with people – Jarvis translates for him, although Steve and his primary therapist and a few other people are learning on their own. Bucky rather likes the cool British voice that stands in for his own, and he likes forming Steve's fingers into new signs.

That he doesn't want to talk wasn't exactly a victory, he knows. But he can communicate, and that _is_.

There are not many other victories to celebrate. Dinner with Janet, watching a movie with Steve (never anything old, always something at least one of them had seen before, those were the rules), and his quiet hours in the dark.

Someone had finally asked him about that, not his primary therapist, but one of the others. He tried to explain how he felt; like a bandaged wound, like an animal gone into hibernation. Goethe may have called for more light, but Bucky felt burned, burned out, singed down to beyond his memories by even the softest candlelight. The dark was warm and comforting, he was hidden and safe. He and Steve always watched movies in the dark. Once he had laid down with his head in Steve's lap, and it had been nice. He doesn't like being touched much; he probably did once, but not just now.

He thinks that he's not quite an open wound, not exactly, but that's not a bad way to put it.

 

 

Bucky is fast asleep when Jarvis wakes him up, informs him that Natasha wants to speak to him urgently. Jarvis repeats a word that Natasha gave him, a word that makes Bucky get up and open the door himself, stand in the doorway and only flinch a little at the light and the woman.

“He's okay,” Nat says first, and Bucky is patient. A little distant, but Steve is okay. He will work from that.

“He got hurt.” She rolled her eyes. “Do I even need to tell you that he was being a dumbass?”

Bucky doesn't smile.

Natasha stops smiling. “He's hurt. But he'll be okay. Do you want to see him?”

Bucky steps through the doorway. He should probably be nice to her, but he doesn't have the energy right now, too many threads of memory. Steve sick, coughing, thin back shaking in his bed. Steve is no longer delicate and birdlike. Bucky has recognized Steve as soon as he enters the room twenty-seven out of the last thirty times he's visited. He has ceased to confuse him with Pierce – he's pretty sure. Another memory-thread; Steve with battered face, soaked in Potomac river-water, rank and smelling of rotten wood and the incoming summer. Steve with blood on his uniform. Steve not waking up, the first step on this long, stupid journey.

(Sometimes Bucky thinks it would have been better, had he never remembered. He would have died eventually. Only sometimes does he think this, though.)

Natasha leads him to an elevator, and then down a corridor to a white, bright room, which Bucky endures because he is meant to wait beside Steve's bed. It's what he does.

Steve is pale, but breathing. One leg is in a heavy brace, and he is asleep. Someone has dressed him in a stupid-looking hospital gown, and there are needles in the back of one of his hands.

Natasha is talking. A broken leg, broken ribs, a punctured lung. Contusions and cuts minor and numerous. They think he'll be up and walking within the week. Bucky places a personal bet that Steve will stubbornly limp his way into Bucky's dark, quiet cave within three days.

He sits, and takes Steve's free hand; it is the done thing. He squeezes it a little, then puts it back against Steve's side. What, exactly, is he doing here?

Steve's eyes crack open and he turns his head and smiles. Oh. Bucky supposes that's what he's doing here. Making Steve feel better, just by existing.

(He takes a moment to marvel at this. He once talked with one of his doctors about mitzvahs, and he's happy to be a mitzvah right now, even if he can't really understand why. This is a thing he has spent his life doing, and he likes how it makes him feel.)

“Hey,” Steve whispers, and Bucky smiles back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for your comments and kudos, they are super-encouraging :)
> 
> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	12. Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't forgotten this story! My apologies for going an unreasonably long time between updates -- this summer was a bit crazy for me, and I've only recently had time to really write again.

They gave him crutches, but he hated them, so he didn't use them. Besides, it didn't take long to limp to Bucky's room, and wait to be let in.

Bucky, of course, shot him a look and pointed to the sofa.

“All right, already,” Steve grumbled. 

Bucky turned the lights up, so Steve could see him sign.

“I missed you too,” Steve said, smiling at him. “And I'm fine, Buck. I'll heal, you know that.”

Bucky did not even need to sign, his look was that eloquent.

Steve laughed, because he was kind of a bastard, but he also shifted so he could get comfortable on the sofa, stretching out and clearly settling in. Bucky signed to Jarvis to pull up their to-watch list on the huge screen taking up one wall, and he grabbed a pillow so he could sit with his back against the sofa Steve was on.

“Just what I needed,” Steve murmured, running his fingertips through Bucky's hair. Bucky ducked his head, but the look he shot Steve was pure teasing, wrinkling his nose. Ew, mushy. Watch this overly heterosexual and masculine film with me and bitch about the fight choreography. He didn't even have to sign it; Steve could practically read his mind anyway.

Steve laughed and flicked Bucky's ear, and Bucky grinned. No one would ever flick the Asset's ear. Steve took enormous joy from acting like a child with him. So he flicked Bucky's ear again. And Bucky flicked him on the arm, and thus two of the best soldiers in the world fought each other.

They both claimed victory, and settled in for some Mad Max.

 

Steve fell asleep halfway through, and woke up to Bucky covering him with a blanket. “Hey,” he murmured, and opened his eyes. “'M sorry.”

Bucky shook his head, and aggressively tucked Steve in.

“No,” Steve protested, but he was still exhausted, and it was warm and dark in the room – Bucky kept his quarters a few degrees warmer than was strictly comfortable, but Steve had learned to wear light shirts the year round, and just now, well. It was impossible not to drift off, Bucky's hand heavy on his shoulder. His leg barely hurt at all, his ribs not at all, and Bucky wouldn't mind...

He woke up slow and easy, and alone – no sound of Bucky breathing, although Fantasia was playing on silent. “Jarvis, is Bucky around?” he asked, sitting up and, frankly, feeling better than he had since the mission.

“Sergeant Barnes is attending to some appointments,” Jarvis responded smoothly. “He will likely return in approximately two hours.”

“Thank you. Lights up, please?” Steve requested, rubbing his eyes. “Can you tell him I'm sorry I fell asleep, but I'll come visit tomorrow? If he wants?”

“I will convey the message to him on his return, Captain.” A pause. “You should be aware that coffee is being kept warm for you in the kitchen.”

Steve smiled, pretended he didn't melt a little bit at the thought of Bucky leaving him coffee, and heaved himself off of the sofa. The kitchen was only a few steps away, but even just a few hours later, walking was easier. Possibly he had needed the rest.

There was a note lying next to the carafe. There's a sandwich in the fridge if you're hungry

Steve was always hungry when he was healing, and he made quick work of the turkey on rye and the hot, strong coffee, blessing Bucky's name for the simple comforts.

The kitchen was spotless, the fridge well-stocked, and Steve was not snooping when he noticed the container of leftovers, the way most of the condiments were only half-full, all the little signs that Bucky was eating regularly. It was frighteningly easy to forget boundaries in the Tony Stark Panopticon of Non-Privacy that was the Tower. Another reason to look forward to moving back to their place in Brooklyn.

He carefully shut down that line of thought; Bucky was safe in the Tower in all kinds of ways that he wouldn't be in their cosy apartment, and he felt safe, and that was by far the most important thing, and always would be. And Steve at least had enough control to not ask Jarvis anything about Bucky that he wouldn't ask about any of his teammates.

Steve washed his dishes and set them in the rack, and let himself out. He was still banned from the gym, but he could walk, if slowly, in the rooftop garden they collectively tended. (Or killed, if you were Steve and Clint.) And he would see Bucky the next day, probably. If not, then soon. Bucky never refused him entry; at first he had worried, afraid that Bucky was just letting him out of fear or because he was so used to obeying, but it seemed to be genuine, this renewal between them. Different than before, but that was right and good, he had decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and for your kudos and comments!
> 
> I am, as ever, at dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	13. Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to God, I'm gonna finish this thing, just in time for Civil War to joss it. I care not.

Bucky started speaking again with no forethought, no planning, just a soft 'hello' that startled the hell out of both himself and the doctor he was greeting.

“Hello,” she said back, and smiled. “It's good to see you again, Bucky. How's the shoulder?”

Bucky made a noncommittal shrug. 

“Pain scale?”

“It hurts. But not enough. To keep me f-from doing things,” Bucky said. He sounded like he'd been chain-smoking for about forty years.

“That's better than it has been,” she said. “Is today a good day to look at your back and shoulder?”

Bucky grinned at her. He'd never quite  _lost_ that spark, but it hadn't come around lately. “Yeah. 'S a good day.”

 

Predictably, Steve was practically beating his door down about thirty seconds after he got back.

“Bucky!”

Bucky smiled. “Hey.” Steve was...kind of infectious, actually.

“Hey.” Steve's voice was gentle, quieter now, like he had to make up for being such a big man. “Oh, Buck. Uh. Sorry you don't have any privacy?”

Bucky laughed at that and stood aside to let Steve in. “S'okay. I. Gave JARVIS permission.”

“Well, thank you for making it so I don't feel like a total asshole,” Steve said, and Bucky smiled.

“We never. Kept stuff from each other. Before. Why start?”

Steve grinned, and started to reach for Bucky, then stopped himself. “Sorry. Um. Okay to hug you?”

In reply, Bucky stepped into Steve's arms, and let himself be hugged. He was still working on what to do back, but Steve didn't seem to mind. Arms around Steve, right. Still a little too big, too warm, when he was expecting skinny and shivering half the time.

“Holy shit, it's good to hear your voice again,” Steve breathed.

Bucky nodded into his shoulder. Today was definitely a good day for touching.

 

What was the saying? One step forward, two steps back?

Bucky sat in the dark, assembling and disassembling engines. He had very pointedly not kept any guns in his living quarters, but scavenged a couple things here and there from various workshops in the tower. (He was pretty sure he'd found an early iteration of DUM-E.)

It was soothing, easy work. The way all the parts fit together so neatly, smooth and sweet and at the end there was a thing that worked. It was...logical. Sensible. Incredibly beautiful. 

He worked just fine by the twilight of the city, and took refuge in the soft darkness that not turning on lights created. His rooms were quiet and still; it was easy to see things in the twilight with his enhanced vision.

Bucky still spoke, but he had politely declined all doctor's sessions that day, and even more politely asked Steve not to visit. He felt a little bad for that but. He couldn't. Other people were...not good. It was hard to explain why (he would have to explain eventually, so best think about it now). Part of it was not feeling like much of a person himself. 

(Working with machines helped that. He was a little bit machine, but mostly person, and putting all the parts together made him at home in his body.)

Part of it was wanting the dark and quiet. It felt like being bandaged up, wrapped in soft, supporting things so that he could heal a little more, like when he had cut his arm and Steve bandaged it for him. Light would have been far too much, shown him too much of himself. He could deal with the dark.

And part of it – a growing part, he admitted – was because he  _could_ . Because he could say no, ask Steve not to visit and Steve  _wouldn't_ . Steve would say all right, and tell Bucky to call if he needed anything, but he wasn't forced to see Steve. He wasn't forced to go to doctors, or talk to anyone, or do anything. He could eat the minimal amount of calories, sleep long hours, and rebuild engines in the sweet dark. 

Bucky suspected telling Steve this would give him that I-might-cry look, but he might tell him anyway. It felt like something big, to make his own choices. Tomorrow, he might be able to leave his rooms again, and see his best friend, and talk to his therapist. He would know when the time came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


	14. Steve

“You'll be at the Stork Club on Friday night, won't you Steve?”

Steve swallowed hard, and wrapped his hands around Peggy's thin, age-spotted hand, enveloping it past the wrist. “Of course, Peg. I'd never miss our date.”

Peggy relaxed and smiled. “No, of course not. You  wouldn't dare .”

“Never. I wouldn't do that to my best girl.”

Peggy laughed, and Steve leaned over and kissed her cheek. It was soft, almost powdery, under his lips. “Take care of yourself, Peg.”

“You too, Steve. I want first dance with you, all right?”

“First, last, and every one in between.” Steve squeezed her hand very gently, and settled it on top of the coverlet. “'Bye Peggy.”

“'Til Friday.”

Steve left before anyone could see him cry. 

 

There was a heavy, thick feeling in his throat the whole way home, and he slipped into the Tower as discreetly as possible. 

“Jarvis, can you ask Bucky if I can visit?” he asked, around the tight feeling. “Please?”

There was a long pause, and Steve distantly wondered what they were saying to each other. Was Bucky reluctant? Jarvis would know not to argue on Steve's behalf, right? Bucky was more important. He was learning to say no, but he was so back and forth on his progress... 

He should have just gone home and not bothered anyone.

“Sergeant Barnes would be happy to host you, Captain.”

They were on the same floor, so it didn't change his destination any. Steve knocked lightly, giving Bucky one more chance to say no, but the door opened immediately.

“Hi,” Bucky said softly. The lights were low and Bucky still kept his rooms very warm, but the air was fresh. His hair was pulled back neatly, and he was wearing jeans and a plain, long-sleeved shirt. “Come on in, Steve.”

Steve trailed him in, trying not to feel stupidly broken. What did he have to be sad about?

“Jarvis said you were visiting Peggy.” Bucky smiled. “You didn't need privacy either, right?”

Steve was surprised into a laugh. “No.” He sat on the sofa, hunched over, and quietly wished that Bucky would sit beside him.

Bucky sat down on the big easy chair halfway across the room. “How is she?”

Steve breathed deeply. “Not good. She's...not long,” he managed. Peggy's heart, of all things, was slowly failing. All of her was, really, but that would be the first to go.

“Oh, Steve.” Bucky's face creased; he was genuinely sad about this. “Oh, no.” He looked like he was going to reach out, but didn't. 

Steve nodded, and stared at the floor. Why had he come here? He was just...useless. Bucky had better things to do.

“Steve.” Bucky frowned, then got up and walked over to stand beside Steve, and rested a hand on his shoulder, his right hand. “Is this okay?” he asked quietly.

Steve nodded. “Y-yeah.” That was okay. Any scrap of comfort was okay. He missed Bucky's hugs. They had only had the sort-of embrace, and that was days ago. Before the ice, they hadn't had much in the way of physical boundaries, mostly because Bucky spent most of his existence in a constant state of needing to touch people.

And then, of course, after, they had been lovers.

Steve pushed all those thoughts away, because it wasn't like they helped anything. He needed to start living in the now.  That was his problem.

“Thanks,” he muttered, and made to stand up.

“You're leaving?” Bucky asked, bewildered.

“I just...you got better things to do.”

“Steve, did you notice the part where I'm a hermit who lives in the dark?”

Steve stopped dead in his tracks. “Oh, my God, Bucky, don't think that about yourself, you're just--” He stopped. “Did you just make a  _joke_ ?”

“Well, not if I need to explain it to you.” Bucky crossed his arms. “Steve get back here.”

Steve turned around and walked back. It was still a tiny bit of a surprise that he could stare Bucky in the eye without looking up to him. Except for the part where he would always, always look up to Bucky.

“I got time for my best friend,” Bucky said softly, and hesitated. “Is this...should I. Oh. Fuck it.” He reached out and pulled Steve into possibly the worst hug in the history of humanity. How did arms fit together? How did this thing work? What the hell?

Steve felt Bucky's arms come around him, gentle and strong and everything that was  _Bucky_ , and it was almost predictable, the way he burst into tears, sobbing into Bucky's shoulder because everything  _hurt_ .

They stayed like that for a good long time.


End file.
